


Ship to Ship

by brynnmck



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For days, Kara walks around with the constant feeling that she's forgetting something.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship to Ship

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to [](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/)**danceswithwords** , who takes the time to beta for me even when I'm sure she'd rather be doing other things.

For days after Lee's transfer, Kara walks around with the constant feeling that she's forgetting something. She keeps looking over her shoulder, in the mess and in combat, and when the Old Man asks her what she hears on her morning jog, she can see the empty space next to her reflected in his eyes.

It's ironic, she thinks; for the few weeks that she was trying to avoid him, he seemed to be everywhere, half-buried in paperwork in the wardroom or cozied up in some dark corner with Dee. Now he's nowhere—or at least nowhere near her—and she can feel the itch of it between her shoulder blades.

Fortunately, there's more than enough work to distract her. She's up to her eyeballs in status reports, a cup of coffee long since gone to cold sludge near her elbow, when the phone on her desk buzzes. She blinks a couple of times to clear her vision, then picks it up.

"Thrace."

"Good evening, Captain," comes Petty Officer Hoven's voice on the other end. Hoven has the night watch, Kara realizes distantly, and has to bite her lip to keep from swearing when she looks at the clock. _Frak. There's no way I'm getting these done before morning_.

"Captain?" Hoven repeats, and Kara sighs, rubs her tired eyes.

"Sorry, Petty Officer. What is it?"

"Permission to patch through a ship-to-ship call from Commander Adama?"

She's so tired that she actually has to puzzle for a second as to why the Old Man would be calling her from another ship, and then she realizes _Lee_ and she chokes out a desperate "Yes" before she can stop herself.

"Putting him through now, sir," Hoven replies, and Kara hopes she's imagining the smirk in her voice, but she suspects she isn't. She grits her teeth, and when she hears the click and hiss of the other line being patched through, she forces herself to breathe calmly, slowly.

"Thrace here."

"Adama here," he answers, the teasing in his tone evident even through thousands of yards of space and metal. "Paperwork?"

"Flooded," she sighs, letting herself slump back against the unforgiving chair as the tension flows out of her in a long, warm wave. "Shouldn't you be ordering some lackeys around or something?"

"I run a tight ship, Captain. No ordering of lackeys after 2200."

She grins. "Must be nice."

"Yeah, it's fantastic," he drawls wryly.

"The Beast giving you trouble already?" she asks, her grin widening.

"Everything's too frakking shiny here," he mutters, sounding so much like a sullen teenager she bites back a chuckle. "My toilet flushes _for_ me. That's just… wrong."

The mental picture hits her just in the right place, and she bursts out laughing, big, rolling laughs that leave her breathless and clinging to her chair for balance. Over the line, she can hear Lee laughing, too; it sounds like he needs it as much as she does.

Eventually, she manages, "Is this the same Lee Adama who bitched nonstop about how crappy everything on _Galactica_ was when he first came aboard? How backward, how inefficient, how inferior—" She recites his litany of complaints with glee.

"I know, I know," he groans. "But I haven't had to kick a single hatch since I got here, and I'm worried I'm losing my touch. CO’s quarters aren’t bad, though," he continues, ignoring her snickering. "No more listening to Hotdog snore, or Kat sniping at Duck…"

"Oh, see, that's just cruel."

"A real mattress…"

"You're breaking my heart, Apollo." The word tumbles automatically out of her mouth, and she tenses; technically, he's not Apollo anymore, never will be again, and the loss closes her throat for a second.

She half-expects him to remind her, but after a minute she realizes his mind is somewhere else entirely, because he suddenly says in a rush, "There are 1800 people on this ship, Kara."

His voice is so desolate that her hand is halfway out to touch his shoulder before she realizes what she's doing. She grimaces in frustration. "Lee," she says instead, trying to make her voice as firm and reassuring as possible. "They’re in good hands."

"You think?" he asks, giving a small laugh that doesn’t hide the edge of panic.

She debates for a second, her tongue crowded with everything she could say, and she finally goes with, "Are you kidding? If I thought you could handle me as your CAG, I'd be over there myself."

Just as she'd hoped, it startles a real laugh out of him, and it’s half-snort but it’s close enough. And then, the knee-jerk reaction, "OK, you're right—it could be so much worse." He sounds more solid again, and she grins.

"You should be so lucky. Wouldn't want to get soft, anyway," she muses. "I think flushing your own toilet is good for the character."

"That's really profound, Starbuck. Can I get that stitched on a pillow?"

"Sure. I'll make sure it matches the canopy on your big princess bed."

"Hey, don't you have a briefing in six hours or so?"

Her stomach drops at the reminder. _Son of a bitch still fights dirty._

"Say hi to the Colonel for me," he adds, twisting the knife, and she silently vows to kick his ass just as soon as their schedules allow.

"Frak off," she growls, but she's grinning, and his laughter is still loud in her ears when she slams the phone down into its cradle.

That night, she sleeps solidly for the first time since her promotion.

 

*****

 

The next morning, she grabs Cally in the corridor on her way out of the mess.

"Need your help with something," she explains, and Cally's eyes get a conspiratorial gleam in them when she sees the look on Kara's face.

"What can I do, sir?" she grins. Kara just winks and motions her toward the flight deck.

Half an hour later, as they're in the final stages of prying the large metal "C13" off one of _Galactica_ 's stickier hatches, the Old Man makes his way through the small crowd that's gathered, silence falling in his wake. She turns to face him, her breathing ragged from the exertion, shifting the crowbar to her left hand so she can give him a sharp salute.

"Starbuck," he sighs, halfway between exasperated and incredulous. "What are you doing?"

"Gift for Commander Adama, sir," she replies cheerfully. "Something to remind him of his old stomping grounds."

He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly not getting the joke, but she can see he's not going to stop her. She spins around, gives the "C13" a final wrench, and it comes away in her hands. "Care to sign it, sir?" she asks, holding out the chunk of metal in one hand and a black permanent marker in the other.

He looks at her for a moment, glances surreptitiously at the pilots and deckhands surrounding him, their faces tense with suppressed excitement. Finally, he shrugs one shoulder and reaches for her hard-won gift, and cheers erupt around him as he signs it with a flourish.

Word travels quickly, and the metal is nearly solid black with scrawled lines before she wraps it up in a scrap of cloth, scribbles a quick note, and sends it to _Pegasus_ on the next transport.

Petty Officer Hoven patches the call through around 2250.

"Remind me to give you a list when my birthday comes around," are the first words out of his mouth, and she cackles delightedly.

"Well, it wasn't a pillow, but I did the best I could."

"I almost broke my toe on that hatch."

"I wanted it to have special meaning for you."

"Very thoughtful." Then, sounding a little stunned, "What'd you do, press-gang the whole frakking crew into signing this?"

"Word got around. We ran out of room, actually, had to turn people away. No accounting for taste, I guess," she teases, trying to ignore the fact that her breath is suddenly unsteady.

"Thanks, Kara," he says quietly, and the warmth spreads all the way to her toes.

She blinks quickly, takes a deep breath. "Don't thank me yet—next time I'm sending you our lunch leftovers."

"Ah, _there's_ the vindictive bitch I know and love."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Commander."

"Get back to work," he tells her, and she hears a click as the line disconnects.

She gives Hoven a standing order to pass any future calls from Commander Adama directly through to her desk, then dives into the nearest pile of paperwork with renewed vigor. Alone in her office with the door closed, she doesn't even try too hard to shake the stupid smile off her face.

*****

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Kara complains a few nights later, her fist clenching around the phone cord at the memory of her latest mid-briefing shouting match with Kat.

Lee doesn’t hesitate. “Do you even need to ask?”

“OK, so I may have _occasionally_ disagreed with you about something—”

“ _Starbuck._ ”

“This is different!”

She anticipates what he’ll say— _it’s different because it’s happening to you this time_ —but he takes pity on her. “Is she right?”

“What?”

“Is Kat right?”

She bites back her automatic response, considers for a few seconds. “She’s got a point about the patrols. Staggering our CAPs with yours would give us better coverage.”

“OK.”

“But she’s also an arrogant frakking bitch who’s apparently forgotten that I was damn near changing her diapers a few months ago,” she bursts out, unable to stop herself.

He laughs. “OK. So keep what’s worthwhile, and ignore the rest.”

“Easy for you to say. I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” she groans, rubbing at the tension in the back of her neck.

“Sure you are,” he returns steadily. “You just don’t want to be.”

She grimaces. “You’re turning into your old man, you know.”

“Oh, frak you.”

“If I start turning into Tigh, I want you to shoot me, OK?”

“Kara—”

“No, I’m serious. Mercy shot, straight to the head.”

“Fine. No problem.” She waits for it, and this time she’s right. “I owe you one, anyway.”

Devoutly hoping they're at the joking point, she demands, “How long do you plan on throwing that in my face?”

“Kara, you _shot_ me. I think I at least get to bring it up until the wound is fully healed.”

“You’re such a whiner,” she scoffs, relieved. So relieved, in fact, that she adds, “Lee.”

“Yeah?”

She hesitates, then, “You know, when I gave you all that crap when you were CAG, it wasn’t—”

“I know, Kara.”

“OK,” she says, and takes a deep breath, lets her head fall to her chest on the exhale. “OK.”

*****

She's halfheartedly working on rosters, still feeling slightly fuzzy from the ambrosia that she and the Old Man had toasted with, when the phone buzzes.

"Hey," he says, subdued, when she picks up. "You OK?"

"Yeah," she answers softly. "You?"

"Yeah."

A long moment passes, and then, his voice strained, "He would have been 27."

"Yep," she whispers. Her fingers tighten around the phone's awkward weight.

They don't say anything after that. She sits with her eyes closed and listens to him breathe.

*****

They've been racing with the _Pegasus_ , seeing who can put together a new Blackbird first, and it started as something to put a little fire in the deck crew (well, something besides the specialists' hooch, anyway), but it's been a closer race than any of them expected. The Beast has better facilities, but the Chief's got love and loyalty in his favor, and she's elbow-deep in the instrument panel when she hears his shout of triumph.

"Got it!" he whoops, brandishing his drill, and she sees the long, sleek stretch of carbon composite where there had been jagged holes a few hours before. They're almost done.

She’s just thinking she can’t wait to throw it in Lee's face when she’s distracted by whistles and catcalls, turns to see Dee making her way across the flight deck toward the _Pegasus_ ' transport ship, stepping carefully in high-heeled shoes. A long, clingy dress swirls around her as she walks; she laughs as Cally calls out a particularly creative suggestion about how to make the most of Lee’s private quarters. With an exaggerated curtsy and a dazzling smile, she disappears agonizingly slowly behind the ship's hatch as it closes, and Kara watches, feeling claustrophobic in her sweaty coveralls.

As the transport’s engines power up, she turns back to the Blackbird, braces one hand on the hull. _Stupid_ , she thinks, and then _he’s happy_ , and she stares hard at the maze of wires in front of her until her vision clears.

Helo seems a little surprised to see her at the Triad table that night, but he kicks one of the new nuggets out of the chair next to him and Snake spots her a handful of chocolates and the increasingly drunken clamor of her crewmates drowns out everything else. By the time Helo drags her to her rack, everything is soft and dull, and when he asks her if she’s OK, she calls him a dumbass and he plants a loud, smacking kiss on her hair and it’s the last thing she remembers until morning.

She grits her teeth through the early briefing, sweats out her hangover in the gym after breakfast. When her CAP rolls around, she’s back in form. She has a brief spat with Buzzer when he complains about Showboat's habit of pulling complicated maneuvers just outside _Galactica_ 's observation deck—there's still a wide gulf between the pilots from the two battlestars, and she's going to have to try to do something about that; sooner or later they'll all be in combat together and she doesn't want anyone killed because they never learned to play nice with the other kids. She shuts Buzzer down, and he grumbles a little, but that's the end of it, and otherwise, the three hours pass uneventfully. She tells herself her status reports can wait and hits her rack early; by the time she falls asleep, she's memorized every scratch in the metal of the bunk above her.

The next night, she tries to do rosters in the wardroom, but after coming within about half a breath of throttling Hotdog for chewing his peanuts too loud, she gives up and retreats to her office.

Because the gods have a sadistic sense of humor, she's not surprised when the phone rings an hour or so later. After a brief internal struggle, she finally snatches it from its cradle and growls "Thrace" into the mouthpiece.

"Well. Good evening to you, too, Captain," and of _course_ he's frakking cheerful, he just—

She stops herself before she can finish that train of thought.

"Sorry," she says, trying to shake off the tightness in her chest. "Just busy."

"Tell me about it." The words are stretched around a yawn. "I've been seriously considering doing away with callsigns."

It surprises a chuckle out of her. " _What?_ "

"There are 1800 people on this ship. That's 1800 names. Add callsigns on top of that… it's frakking sadistic, is what it is."

She can't help it; she smiles, rolls her eyes. "The burdens of command."

"Exactly. Either that, or I could just call everybody by the same name. I'm thinking 'Chet.'"

"Very inspirational." For half a second, she wants to see him so badly she can barely breathe, wants to see the humor and exhaustion in his eyes and the casual trust in his body, wants to _know_. She bites her top lip, hard, and doesn't say anything.

"So I hear your Blackbird's coming along," he offers, oblivious.

She clears her throat, forces her mouth into a smirk even though he can't see it. "Don't sound so surprised."

"Well, as soon as our techs get the schematics programmed in, give us a couple of weeks and we can churn out enough for a squadron." For the first time, she hears pride in his voice.

"Good," she says, too forcefully, "good," and she's not sure who she's trying to convince.

"I'm going to talk to Showboat about the hotdogging on CAP," he goes on. "She doesn’t mean anything by it, she's just—"

And then her brain catches up. "Wait. How'd you know about that?"

He pauses, then, stalling, "I'm a Commander now. I know everything."

"Except the names of your crew," she shoots back.

"Ooh. Low blow. You know, I open up to you, and then—"

"How'd you know, Lee?" she interrupts, starting to build up a head of steam, the temper that's been simmering for the past couple of days bubbling to the surface. "Did Buzzer complain to you? Because if he did, I swear to the Gods I'm gonna—"

"Whoa, Kara, hang on. He hasn't said a word." He pauses again, clears his throat. "I was in CIC the other day, and I happened—purely in passing—to catch a bit of your comm chatter while you were on CAP."

It catches her completely off-guard, and for a few seconds all she can do is gape.

"Kara?"

She has to close her eyes for a second.

"Kara?" he repeats.

"Yes?" she manages finally.

"It wasn't a big deal."

The grin spreads across her face, slow and wide. "What wasn't? The fact that you're a huge frakking _stalker_?"

"Hey!" But he's laughing. "You can't speak to your superior officer that way."

"I'm sorry, did you say my superior _stalker_?" It's stupid and it's childish and it's _them_ , and she can't stop smiling.

"Oh, frak you. Just because every once in a while it's nice to hear the voices of people I don't have to call 'Chet'…"

She laughs, much harder than the joke warrants, keeps laughing until she feels lightheaded and weak, like she could sleep for days. "Oh, Gods. I am never going to let you live that one down."

"Like I don't have my share of dirt on _you_ , Starbuck."

"Well, you would, with the stalking," she returns gleefully. _Walked right into that one_.

"I have actual work to do, you know," he sniffs, and she suddenly remembers something.

"Hey, wait. I had an idea."

"You had an idea?"

She recites the words with him, and then, as he's laughing, "Now that _that's_ out of the way… I want to do an exchange program, half my pilots for half of yours."

"Huh," he muses, considering. "Do you think that's a good idea? Things got pretty tense, the last time we had everyone together."

"Exactly. And since we can't lock 'em all in closets and let 'em fight it out…"

"… we let them share a communal shower instead."

She grins. "Pretty much. Plus, it might help you with your little callsign issue."

"Kara Thrace, putting aside flygirl rivalry for the greater good," he marvels. "It really must be the end of the world."

"Just because you've got your own ship now doesn't mean I can't still kick your ass, you know."

"I'll see if I can pencil that in on my schedule. In the meantime, your idea's got potential," he admits. "Put together a draft roster and send it over to Stinger in the morning."

"Yes, sir. Because you're much too busy and important to look at it yourself."

"I'm so glad you're finally admitting that."

" _Goodbye_ , Commander Stalker."

"'Bye, Chet."

She falls asleep at her desk, wakes up with a stiff neck and the shape of her pen cap etched into her cheek. She drags herself to the mess, and when she looks up from the coffee pot, she sees Dee waiting in line behind her, smiling hesitantly.

Kara smiles back, and reaches for a second mug.

*****

"Do you ever think about where you're going to live, if we find Earth?" he asks her one night when they're both avoiding paperwork.

_Bright, shiny futures are overrated_ , she thinks, but it isn't the time for that. "Somewhere far away from Whiplash. Bastard never washes his socks."

He sighs. "Very deep."

"But sincere." After a minute, she adds, "Somewhere near the water would be nice."

"And trees. I really miss trees."

"Yeah," she says. "Me too."

*****

She tugs at her uniform, grabs the end of her jacket to keep her hand away from her hair. The light glinting off the smooth silver surfaces annoys her irrationally, as does the carefully starched uniform of the ensign who's leading her to CIC.

She hears him before she sees him. "Very good, Captain," he's saying; she realizes she's never even met his XO. "We'll run this at regular intervals."

"Yes, sir."

And then she's being led through the hatch. She almost doesn't recognize him for a second, standing in the heart of the giant room like he owns it. For weeks, he's been nothing but a voice to her, and she has a moment of dry-throated panic, wonders if she's been fooling herself that her friend Lee is still somewhere in the confident man standing in front of her.

"Commander Adama." She gives him a sharp salute.

"Captain Thrace." He returns the salute, and she thinks she might see the hint of a smile, but in the flickering light of CIC it's hard to tell.

"I…" She clears her throat. "I brought the reports you requested, sir." She'd thought it was a trumped-up excuse; now she isn't sure anymore.

He nods. "Excellent. Captain, you have the con," he says briskly to his XO, and leads her from the room with a courteously extended arm.

They make the short trip to his quarters in awkward silence; she almost laughs at how smoothly and easily the hatch swings open at his touch. _He wasn't kidding_.

The room is huge compared to the Old Man's quarters, but he's got the beginnings of a library shelved on one wall, and the bed is neatly made. She smiles a little when she sees the picture on his desk, him and Zak looking small and happy and tousled next to their father and his plane.

He collapses into the chair behind the desk, leans back with a welcoming smile. "Hey."

"Hey." He looks tired, older, but he relaxes visibly as she risks a grin. Humor and exhaustion and casual trust, and she swallows hard, because she's an idiot.

"So is that the famous toilet?" she asks finally, jerking her head toward the small door in the corner.

"Sorry," he tells her solemnly, all mock regret, "you have to be a Major or above to use it."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Pulling rank. That's pretty low, Lee."

He just grins. "Can I make it up to you?" He kicks the other chair in her direction, nods toward the bottle on his desk and the two glasses waiting next to it.

She tosses down the reports, slumps into the chair and props her boots on his desk. "You can try."

"Same old Kara," he sighs, shaking his head, and because she's not _that_ much of an idiot, she thinks he means _I missed you_.

She throws him a cigar, clamps another one between her teeth. "Same old Lee," and it's not true of either of them, but it doesn't matter; she hopes he hears _I missed you, too_. "Congratulations," she adds.

"On what?"

"On remembering my name."

"The night is young," he shrugs, and she laughs as he pours the drinks.


End file.
